At Arm's Length
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: Sherlock and Mycroft have a long overdue confrontation.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Set after "Another Reason Altogether" and before "Instructional Materials". This one may take awhile, as I'm quite busy with real life (read: work) at the moment. But as always, please enjoy! Thanks for everyone who's stuck with this so far, you guys keep it fun and keep me going. I don't know what I'd do without you (well probably just quit!). I do not own, nor do I profit from.

* * *

John had never done anything like this before.

Never thought to steal the mobile that Sam had left him and Sherlock, so that they could get in touch with him if they needed to and when they wanted to.

Never considered calling the Interpol agent during the middle of the day from his own mobile in his office, carefully keying in the number and then shutting Sam's phone off again, so it would not record a call, nor show any battery drain when Sherlock next used it.

Never used Sam's connections to get information he wanted, information he didn't think he could obtain any other way, or at least not quickly or easily.

John had never thought he'd be sitting behind his desk in his locked office, forgoing his lunch break, keeping a sharp ear on the sounds from the corridor, in case someone came by and knocked.

Never imagined he'd be listening for the faint Scottish accent when the woman he was trying to reach answered her phone, her voice not quite suspicious, but cautious, since his number would be identifiable as a London call, but not someone she would know or recognize.

"Yes, hello?"

John never pictured taking this deep breath, letting it out slowly, wondering if he was utterly mad for what he was about to do.

"Angela MacTaggart?" he asked.

"Who's this?" she replied, not precisely answering his question.

"My name is Doctor John Watson. I don't know if you remember – "

"Yes, of course I remember you, Doctor Watson," she interrupted smoothly and John never thought he'd hear the faint note in her voice that spoke of tension brought back to the surface, fear that had not dissipated. "May I ask how you got this number? And if everything is all right?"

"I got your number from a friend in Interpol," John replied. Never considered he'd admit so plainly to that, especially to someone who knew Mycroft. "And yes, everything is fine here, thank you."

"I see," Angela replied, and there was now a note of displeasure in her voice. John ignored this. "What can I do for you, Doctor?"

John had never done _anything_ like this before.

It was oddly thrilling, but entirely terrifying.

"I was wondering if you could take some time to come to London?" he asked. "I need your help."

He never imagined he'd be able to identify a frown over the phone, at least not on someone whom he barely knew. He suspected Sherlock could do it in his sleep, though.

"My help?" Angela enquired. "With what?"

Another deep breath, another pause on the line, another step John had never thought he'd ever take or ever have to.

"With Mycroft."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** have some more! next one may be longer in coming, though.

* * *

When he arrived at the Dorchester Hotel, and was admitted by one of the smooth and immaculate doormen whose expression was acknowledging and deferential, if not _quite _welcoming, because that would be too personal, John felt out of place.

He'd taken pains to dress well, knowing he'd not want to stand out too much, although a glance around the luscious and well-lit lobby told him he may not have had to bother. Several guests were dressed in regular clothing, jeans and casual shirts, although John suspected the labels were high end, well above his means.

He sighed internally – no, not well above his means. Sherlock wouldn't have batted an eyelash if John had nicked his debit card to buy that kind of clothing. He probably wouldn't have even noticed the charges, although he was certain to notice the brands themselves. But John found this unnecessary because Sherlock, with his impeccable taste in clothing, never complained about what John wore. In fact, he complained when John didn't wear jumpers, even in the summer, when it was not really an option.

It was Sherlock who'd selected and purchased the suit John wore now, which was tailor-made – the very first piece of clothing John had ever had that was. It had replaced the suit he'd worn to Harry's funeral, his standard funeral and wedding suit at the time. That suit, and everything else he'd worn that day, he'd given to Sherlock to get rid of.

Some time after that, Sherlock, in one of his I'm-bored-and-you'll-do-as-I-say moods, had dragged him out, insisting John needed something presentable for when the appropriate occasion arose. John went along with it because it was pointless to try and argue with Sherlock about almost anything, and Sherlock's sense of style was much more refined than John's.

He'd argued with the tailor over colours and cuts and thread counts and weights and styles and breathability and John had stood there like a living, breathing dummy, being told when to move, what to move, how to stand, having swatches of fabric held to his chest so Sherlock could eye them critically before dismissing them or nodding with calculated reluctance – maybe.

John had never imagined buying a simple suit would be such an ordeal.

In the end, though, he had something that fit and became him quite well, which, despite the casually but expensively attired guests lounging about the lobby and the bar with their evening martinis, he was glad he'd worn, because he was going to meet with Mycroft Holmes, who never dressed down.

Even in Edinburgh, during the long hours waiting for David's captors to call, Mycroft had not so much as loosened his tie or shed his suit jacket.

John felt somewhat out of place, as though some patron or hotel staff member would recognize him as not staying there and demand to know who he was, and what he wanted. Sherlock, he considered darkly, would have breezed in with full confidence that the world would bend to his will and desires and that anywhere he was, he was meant to be. John had seen this work at crime scenes when Lestrade wasn't present before, although it was less effective on the police in general, because they were conditioned to treat everyone on site as if they didn't belong. Sometimes even one another, and John had seen subtle turf wars played out with sharp glances and off handed remarks that could make even Sherlock envious at their cutting power.

There were no police officers here, but security was in evidence and they eyed John up, but he ignored them, because security he could deal with. It reminded him of being in the army. Instead, he made himself appear as though he were bored – an expression he'd learned from Sherlock, although on Sherlock it was often not feigned – and pulled out his mobile, sending a text to Angela MacTaggart to let her know he'd arrived.

_One moment, someone will meet you_, she sent back and John wondered who it would be. Did she still have people willing to work for her, even though she was retired? Would she have pressed one of Mycroft's staff into service? He hoped it wasn't Anthea (he still wasn't sure he believed Sherlock that her real name was Karen Johnson) because he wanted to avoid any contact with the text message addict. Surely, Angela knew that Anthea would alert her boss if John was present.

But it was the hotel manager, appearing from behind some glossy wooden door that separated the above stairs from the below stairs, the door shutting silently behind him, probably felt-lined or something, John thought, so as to block out noise.

"Doctor John Watson?" the manager asked solicitously, all poise and confidence, the things John were not particularly feeling right now.

But he was a doctor, he reminded himself. That was probably important for appearances, somehow.

"Yes," John agreed, returning his mobile to the pocket on the inside of the jacket, where the weight wouldn't distort the fabric or the lay of the suit. Sherlock _and_ the tailor had been insistent about that.

"Right this way, please. Ms. Thorington is expecting you."

At this, John made himself not raise his eyebrows but nod, as if Angela's assumed name did not surprise him. He should have known, he told himself.

He was taken up by lift – accessible with a hotel key card only – to a floor with what appeared to be a very limited number of rooms, all suites, John supposed. There was no noise on the floor, save for the very faint rustle of their footfalls against the thick and luxurious carpet, and the soft shifting of fine wool as they moved.

The manager stopped them outside a door and waited, and John tried to pretend as though he were expecting this. There was no rapping on the dark, polished oak, nor any other indication – a call, a text – that they were there, but within the space of a few moments, the door was pulled open. John caught a glimpse of a sumptuously appointed suite behind Angela MacTaggart, who stepped partway into the corridor, almost letting the door shut behind her, but not quite. Her right hand rested against the wood, fingertips keeping the weight enough to let the door remain open a crack.

"Doctor Watson for you, Ms. Thorington," the manager said quietly.

"Thank you, Richard," Angela replied in an equally soft voice. "Please see that we're not disturbed. My son's just fallen asleep."

John knew he shouldn't have been surprised that David was there, but he was. Where else would the boy be? A little over two months after his abduction, would he consent to be parted from the only parent he'd ever known? Unlikely.

John saw Angela note his surprise, but doubted the hotel manager had done so.

"Of course," the manager said smoothly, easily. "Good evening."

She nodded at him and he slipped away, moving softly back up the warmly lit corridor and Angela beckoned John inside, resting an index finger against her lips as she did so. John kept quiet, following her through the spacious suite, trying not to gawk. He had felt the same in her apartment in Edinburgh, although the furniture and decoration there had been simpler, less opulent, but no less obviously expensive and high class.

Angela guided him into the master bedroom and shut the door silently behind them. John wondered for a moment what Sherlock would think of _that_ if he knew – alone in a bedroom with Mycroft's possibly former lover.

And they were alone. John had been expecting Mycroft to be there – that had been part of the arrangement they'd worked out, but he wasn't. Nor had John really imagined meeting with Mycroft in a bedroom, so in a way, it was a relief that his brother-in-law was not present.

"He's here," Angela said quietly, reading his expression with years of expertise on her side. "Look."

She gestured John over to the desk, where two laptops were set up, both of them displaying images that John immediately recognized as camera feeds. It didn't surprise him at all to see that one of them was from a camera just over the door of the suite in the corridor, showing the hallway on either side as it stretched away. She'd had to have known somehow that he and the manager had been outside.

The other was fed into the suite's second bedroom. The image was less distinct, because the heavy curtains were drawn, even though it was still not quite dusk yet, the summer sun still up, but beginning to set.

There were two figures on the bed in the other room, Mycroft Holmes and David MacTaggart. The boy, whom John recognized easily from the photos he'd seen, curled up next to the man, his head pillowed on Mycroft's left thigh. Mycroft was sitting up, back against the headboard, with the most absent expression John had ever seen on his face, and he realized then that Mycroft really had no idea he was there. He'd assume only that Angela was watching, if anyone was watching at all.

He was idly stroking David's curly hair, the hair that had reminded John so much of Sherlock's, that had given him his first inkling that there was some relation there. The boy was asleep, chest rising and falling slowly, and Mycroft's eyes looked distant, although John was willing to bet his mind was still working rapidly, even if his body was still and his expression vague.

John looked at Angela, unable to disguise his shock.

He'd never imagined associating anything domestic with Mycroft before. It had been hard enough imagining Sherlock doing it even when he'd _seen_ Sherlock doing it, and it still caught him by surprise after all this time.

"He was the one who made the exchange," Angela said, and she sounded almost weary. John's heart went out to her – although she looked better than the last time he'd seen her, which wasn't difficult, she still looked tired, and sad now, rather than terrified. "He was the first familiar person David saw after – after five days of being drugged, starved, and held captive."

John wondered what it took for someone, a parent especially, to say those words.

He wanted to ask so many things, but knew it wasn't his place, nor his business. Sherlock, he suspected, would have started on the questions and deductions immediately, but John knew a lot more about tact – in fact, he just knew about tact in general – and kept his mouth shut. Whatever arrangements Angela was making with Mycroft were her affair.

He was here about Mycroft's brother, not Mycroft's son.

"You'll have to be patient," she said. "David will need to be more deeply asleep before he can get up."

At this, John just nodded, glancing back at the computer monitor and Mycroft, who was unaware that he was being watched.

John wondered how _that_ would go over once he realized, a man who was so used to watching himself, to being the one behind the camera, the one with the electronic eyes that could see almost anywhere he wanted them to.

John realized suddenly that he'd become almost accustomed to the idea that Mycroft was watching him. How odd to be on the other end, even if only briefly. Odd, but not at all appealing, really.

"Drink?" Angela offered.

"Before talking to Mycroft?" John said. "No. Probably afterwards, though."

She gave him a small, wry smile, little more than a twitch of her lips, but her hazel eyes glinting once in the sunlight that slanted through the high windows, leaving patches of late, golden light on the thick carpet and plush bed.

"Well considered," she replied. "Tea or coffee instead?"

"Tea," John agreed and she set herself to making some, handing it to him in a fine china cup and saucer that was probably worth more than John's monthly salary at the surgery. He tried not to think about what would happen if he dropped it.

She waved him into a seat, and John sat in a striped navy-and-cream wing back chair, part of him wishing they had something half so comfortable at home. Angela took the matched chair, which was angled somewhat to face him, slipping her shoes off and drawing her legs up under her, curling into the chair. She sipped her tea quietly, hazel eyes distant for a moment.

"How is he?" John asked.

A slight smile touched her lips against the edge of her cup, then she lowered the cup to the saucer and met John's eyes.

"David? Or Mycroft?"

For a moment, John wondered what kind of reply he'd get if he answered Mycroft's name.

Somehow, he doubted it would be much information at all.

"David," he replied.

Angela nodded, and John knew she'd have guessed this. She took another sip of her tea, as if to delay the moment in which she replied.

"He has some good days now," she admitted. "It is slow. There are times when I think he forgets, just moments, really, and then it's as if he's realized he's forgotten and it comes back. He has nightmares. I was glad to come to London, actually – there are nights when it isn't me he wants. Those are the worst of them."

John marvelled at her ability to keep her voice steady while she said this. Not only to admit how much her son was still suffering, but also that there were times she was not enough. That David wanted the man who had rescued him. His father. Whichever. John didn't pretend to understand what the boy felt for Mycroft.

Or what Mycroft felt for David, really.

Although, he thought, he had a clearer idea on that last one. His eyes slid back to the laptop screen, watching Mycroft holding a sleeping David. He had stopped stroking his son's hair and was just sitting silently now.

It was strange, John suddenly realized. He'd seen Sherlock do precisely the same thing with Josephine, but for different reasons. Not because Josephine was scared and wouldn't sleep, but because Sherlock actually enjoyed it, with her. Because she wanted to curl up with her uncle and doze off, secure and happy and safe. Not because it was the only way she could fend off fears that were too old for a child. For anyone, for that matter.

He wondered what Mycroft thought of this whole thing, this situation that he'd removed himself from because neither he nor Angela really wanted his involvement, and then which had suddenly been forced onto him.

He wanted to say something reassuring to Angela, but refrained. What could he say? He didn't know David. Didn't really know her, either. When it came down to it, most of the time, he felt like he didn't know Mycroft. And who was John? Brother-in-law to an absent father, husband to an unknown uncle. It didn't mean much.

"Come," Angela said then and uncurled herself from the chair, slipping her shoes back on. She stood, poised and graceful, belying the tired woman she'd been only a moment ago. John put his mostly-empty teacup aside, rising to join her, and she led him out of the bedroom, into the sitting room, still carrying her cup and saucer.

He wondered what had alerted her, and then how many times Mycroft must have sat with David until the boy had fallen asleep that Angela could read when he was about to gently dislodge himself.

Angela settled herself into a low-backed armchair and nodded for John to take the couch, which he did. It didn't escape his notice that both of them would be able to see Mycroft emerge from the other bedroom without having to look over their shoulders, and that he would be able to see them. He felt vaguely uncomfortable in his tailor-made suit, in this room in this hotel where both Mycroft and Angela would feel at home, but which was not really John's type of place. But he drew a breath and dismissed the disquiet with the practiced ease of years of military and medical training. He knew he'd never match Mycroft's abilities at commanding his reactions, but it didn't matter. That wasn't why he was there.

A minute or two later, the bedroom door opened and Mycroft eased himself out, moving with the kind of precision John expected from him, but much more care, much more caution. The door barely made a sound when it closed again and, for a moment, Mycroft was still, an expression of relief on his face that was quickly banished, or at least subsumed under his control.

When he turned to face them, his expression changed again, his clear grey eyes darkening somewhat, the barest moment of shock passing through them. And John saw something in them he'd never seen before – Mycroft was suddenly aware of being pinned. Not trapped, not like he'd been in Edinburgh, at the mercy of a drugs lord and his mercenary-trained kidnappers. Confronted this time by someone he knew and trusted.

"Ella," Mycroft said simply, but there was a hint, a mere hint, of reproach in his voice.

"Come and sit," Angela said, keeping her voice quiet so as not to disturb David. "John would like to talk to you, that's all. We're both quite tired with the way things are going with you and your brother."


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft held off a moment, and he and Angela evaluated each other silently. John wondered what passed unspoken between them. What must it be like, he thought, to maintain some kind of personal relationship between two people who were – well, who were Mycroft Holmes and Angela MacTaggart? He wondered, too, if they'd considered what kind of complications a child could bring up before Angela had decided to have David.

Probably. And they'd probably thought they'd planned for all contingencies.

Being in the army had taught John that accounting for everything was impossible. Being married to Sherlock just reinforced it, every single day.

And – he was going out on a limb here, but not much of one, since he did know Mycroft somewhat – he was willing to bet they hadn't anticipated how all of the emotional complexities could trip them up. Even if they'd sat down and mapped it all out. It wasn't the same as actually experiencing them.

"I presume Sherlock doesn't know you're here?" Mycroft asked in a voice that was fairly free of inflection, tinged only with what sounded like professional curiosity.

"No," John agreed.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at this, a bit of disbelief in his eyes, as well as a hint of approval.

John knew Sherlock didn't though, or else he'd have shown up by now, or confronted John with it already, probably angrily, with some pointed examples of how much of an idiot John was and admonishments to leave well enough alone.

John would be willing to do that, if he felt things were well enough.

They were not. He couldn't stand this fraternal stalemate, the constant uncertainty about when Mycroft would show up again and why, the fall out from his life that touched theirs unexpectedly and not at all in beneficial ways – the flat up the street was still a gapping hole, cordoned off as a demolition zone as workers carefully stripped away what was left of the building.

But at least Interpol had been able to announce that they'd caught the responsible parties with the help of the London police – this wasn't at all true, but Sam had insisted, because it made everyone look good all around, and it had been very, _very_ much in his best interests at the time to make as many people as possible look as good as possible.

"And how did you manage that?" Mycroft asked, finally deigning to take a seat, in the chair beside Angela. John realized she'd manoeuvred him into that – he could sit beside her insofar as it was possible, but she was holding herself apart, not quite declaring a side. Had she sat on the couch, where John was now, Mycroft could have sat with her, silently implying a combined front.

"Battlefield tactics," John replied and saw Angela's lips turn upward at that. Mycroft cocked his eyebrow again.

It was just that. With some help from Angela, but probably not as much as Mycroft was assuming, John had recruited assistance from quarters Sherlock wouldn't find suspicious, all with the mind of getting him out of the flat that evening and keeping him out of it until that night.

He had Lestrade and Amanda at Bart's hold off on processing an interesting case by a few days, which John knew the DI didn't like, but which he acquiesced to, because there were also other cases tying up his attention and it meant he could do some prioritizing. Amanda was willing to do it because she was backed up as well, and it was something she'd wanted to pass off to Sherlock anyway, since it seemed interesting. John had been lucky – he'd managed to catch her a scant hour before she'd planned on ringing his husband.

He timed it with Tricia too, who was happy to arrange an evening out with her own husband and ask John and Sherlock to babysit. Since this request came before the call from Lestrade, they'd agreed. Tricia had, of course, engaged her regular Monday babysitter for the occasion, because she was still taking the opportunity to go out with Henry, diversion or not.

The inevitable – planned – summons had come from Lestrade and Sherlock had actually agonized, in no small part, John knew, because it meant going without John. He'd pled with John to back out on Tricia, which John refused, then tried to wheedle Lestrade into leaving the case for the following day, but the inspector had argued that it had already been left long enough. Then he'd played his trump card against Sherlock, telling him that he thought perhaps the forensics needed another go, because Anderson may have missed something.

John had suggested that Amanda may be of service in his place, and, although Sherlock had moaned about this being completely unacceptable, he'd finally reluctantly agreed to go. Well, not quite reluctantly, although John could see him warring with himself even as he stepped out the door – to go without John, or to stay behind with John and Josephine? John had ushered him out, saying he'd missed cases before and Sherlock always muddled through somehow, reminding him that he was, after all, a genius, then kissed the exasperated consulting detective before he'd darted down to catch a cab.

Only when John saw the cab disappear from view did he let out a sigh.

He had not fully expected it to work.

He had then taken out his suit, in its garment bag, and gone to Tricia's, where he had changed, then come to the hotel. When he was finished here, he would return there, change back, and leave the suit there for her to drop at the cleaners, so he had a good excuse for where it was.

There was still the problem of what to do if Sherlock finished his case early, but Lestrade had sighed and told John that this was London – he could find something else. In his grim policeman's way, he'd said something would probably come up on its own while they were on this case anyway.

Thankfully, at the moment, John was ostensibly with Josephine, and could claim to be distracted or busy if Sherlock tried to call him.

"I see," Mycroft said, as though he'd read all of this behind John's eyes in the flash of a second. "And you manoeuvred me quite masterfully as well," he continued, although this last was directed at Angela, whose look in reply revealed nothing, at least not anything John could read.

"He'll be displeased about this when he finds out," Mycroft commented.

"Oh believe me," John said with certainty and feeling. "I know." He had been mentally prepping himself for anger unlike anything Sherlock had ever directed at him before. The key, he knew, was keeping Sherlock properly heated about it – if was only if he fell into icy silence that John would be in serious trouble. Better Sherlock tear a strip, or several, off of him and have this problem resolved than continue to dance around it.

Mycroft sighed, leaning forward somewhat, interlacing his fingers, holding his hands between his knees. He was not, John suddenly realized, wearing the ring he normally wore on his right hand, the simple silver band. John had never seen him without this, but had never really noticed it until it was no longer there. He noticed now that Angela was wearing it, on the middle finger of her right hand, her fingers being thinner than Mycroft's.

He wondered what _that_ meant, but doubted he'd ever know. Unlikely something simple and straightforward, knowing them, and he couldn't see either of them playing at happy families. Although he doubted much that there was a great deal of happiness in this family – if that's what it was – at the moment, with fallout from David's abduction.

"What do you want me to do, John?" Mycroft asked. If he noticed John's appraisal of the ring situation, he didn't comment.

"I want you to talk to him," John replied plainly.

Mycroft leaned back, giving John a long look that cut right into him. John met it without flinching; Sherlock subjected him to those all of the time, and Sherlock, knowing him better, could pull significantly more out of them.

"I've tried talking to him, John."

John shook his head.

"No, Mycroft, you've tried reasoning with him, you've tried making him see things from your point of view, you've tried talking _at_ him. I want you to talk _to_ him."

At this, Mycroft raised both eyebrows.

"A lifetime of being Sherlock's older brother and you expect you can educate me on how best to deal with him?" he enquired. There was a sharp, warning note in his voice, one that made John uneasy.

"My," Angela admonished softly and Mycroft suddenly stilled, not peacefully, but as though he'd realized again he was pinned. John was struck for a moment as well by the nickname. Not just the fact that someone was using something so personal with Mycroft, but the very possessive nature of the name itself.

Again, he wondered what went on, knowing he'd never fully know.

"Yes," he answered. "Because you _are_ Sherlock's older brother and that's precisely the problem. I understand that he's a proper genius and so are you. I _know_ when I'm dealing with him, I'm not dealing with an equal, not intellectually, nowhere close. I know that, he knows that. But he's also my husband, so in that, I am dealing with someone on equal footing, at least in terms of the relationship. You, on the other hand, you match him intellectually and you both know that, but you insist on talking to him as though he were still your baby brother – _not _your younger brother, Mycroft."

"You know what he's like, John," Mycroft sighed.

John barked a single laugh.

"Yes! I do! Because I live with him every single day and I've seen how he's _changed_ since the day I first met him! Do you know, that day, Sergeant Sally Donovan told me that she thought one day it would be him behind a victim, laughing while the police tried to keep up with him? That she thought the cases wouldn't be enough, eventually, and he'd want to be the one pulling the strings? I never bloody worried about that myself, because it always struck me as wrong. But you – I think you do worry about that. You want to keep him occupied."

"Of course I do, John," Mycroft replied. "A man like Sherlock doesn't do well with down time or boredom. You know that."

"I do," John agreed. "But you don't want to trust him to find things to occupy himself. Either because you think he can't, or you don't like what he might find on his own. Maybe both. I don't know. Some days, I worry about it myself. Especially when he goes after bloody international drugs smugglers by himself. He's amazingly good at being a right bloody idiot despite how fantastically smart he is, but that needs to be his decision. You're not responsible for him."

"So he's told me, many times," Mycroft murmured.

"And do you listen?" John shot back. "For God's sake, Mycroft, he has a more adult relationship with an eleven-month-old baby girl than you do with him! Because he actually _listens_ to Josephine and takes an interest in what _she_ wants when she's with him, rather than trying to just direct her to do what he wants!"

John paused, drawing in a deep breath – he didn't want this to get out of hand, and he did not, at all, want to wake David MacTaggart. The last thing the boy needed was to be woken up by a shouting match between Mycroft Holmes and a complete stranger. He'd probably had his fill of complete strangers doing the yelling for his entire young life.

"This isn't about some old Christmas feud about who got what gift, or who got to stay up on New Year's Eve and who didn't, or who borrowed the other's books or chemistry set and ruined it, or any of that!" John said. "This is about you and Sherlock talking like actual bloody adults and you actually acknowledging that."

Mycroft gave him a long, cool stare and John tried not to shift uncomfortably under its weight. He knew he'd probably crossed some line, and had spat on it on the way by and was now waving happily to it from very, very far away, but he didn't care.

He'd had it up to his ears with the nonsense between Sherlock and Mycroft.

Angela stayed silent, and John was glad. Her presence was enough, he thought; if she'd said anything, it would have thrown her on John's side, and Mycroft would have been forced to take up the offensive. John felt better thinking about this in military terms; Angela was like a silent arbiter, a mediator without words, but also without bias.

He suspected she'd have some things to say, once John had gone, but they could be done privately.

"And do you think Sherlock will acknowledge that?" Mycroft sighed.

"No," John said bluntly. "But you could at least try and meet him halfway."

"And what do you imagine I've been doing my whole life with him?"

"I imagine you've been trying to prove to him that you've been trying to meet him halfway," John replied quickly. "Trying to show him that you're still the older brother, that you're doing the responsible thing. Instead of acting it out, maybe try it?"

Mycroft stared at him. John could see the line he'd crossed burning now.

It still didn't matter.

"And where would you suggest I speak with him?" Mycroft asked. John was impressed – there was only the barest hint of coolness in his voice, no indication in his face or eyes that he was losing his patience, which John would have been, had their situations been reversed.

But he'd already lost his, which is why he was there.

"Our flat," John said. "I will let you in myself. I'll stay or go when you talk to him, whatever he wants."

"Do you have any idea how this is going to go over for you?" Mycroft asked.

"Not really," John admitted evenly. "But I'm willing to chance it, because he's my husband, and you're his brother."

"He won't thank you for it."

"You'd be surprised how infrequently I hear a thank-you," John replied with a wry twitch of his lips, and something lit even in Mycroft's eyes at that. "And it doesn't matter if he doesn't thank me. We could do with a little peace in our flat when it comes to the subject of you."

Mycroft gave a sigh and John got the distinct impression he was actually trying not to roll his eyes.

"John, I very much doubt that Sherlock spends much time agonizing over anything, least of all my presence – or lack thereof, in recent months – in his life. He has never been one for happy sibling relationships."

_Bet you haven't, either_, John thought, but kept this comment to himself.

"Mycroft, if you think he doesn't think about you, you need to reconsider what you think you know about him." John stood, feeling as though it was about time to be going, to let Angela handle the rest in whatever mysterious way she chose to do. He got the sense he had pushed Mycroft far enough already and much more would only backfire on him.

His brain twisted those words slightly and he thought that Mycroft Holmes was not someone he wanted firing back upon him.

"He loves you, Mycroft. He's just not especially good at admitting or understanding it. You love him, too, I know that. But step back for a few minutes and start thinking about seeing him the way he is _now_, not the way you always remember him."


	4. Chapter 4

John chose his time with Sherlock equally as carefully, perhaps more carefully than he had with Mycroft. It was an extremely delicate balance, with Sherlock.

John needed him to be distracted enough by something else that, when John brought up the subject, Sherlock couldn't give it all of his considerable focus but only partially focus to John. But not while doing something important, like one of his experiments, and obviously not on a case. In either circumstance, John knew Sherlock would stop what he was doing and bend all of his attention to John talking about him talking to Mycroft.

He didn't want Sherlock to stop on a case because those were critical. And he didn't want Sherlock to stop in the middle of an experiment in case something exploded.

Nor did he want to catch Sherlock unawares during some rare down time, reading or watching crap telly. Certainly not while watching Doctor Who – any interruption of _that_ would make the situation all the more volatile for John.

There was only one time that John could think of that this would work properly.

They were at the park, with Josephine, who was on the swings.

Part of John kept expecting Sherlock to grow bored with dealing with a baby on a regular basis, but he never did. John hadn't yet worked out what it was – nor did he imagine he ever would. He didn't imagine it was really about the changeable nature of babies, how they didn't stay the same for more than a day or two at a time. He thought it was more to do with Josephine herself, who was turning out to be quite bright and had some kind of mysterious attachment to her eccentric uncle.

It wasn't as though Sherlock felt this way about other children. Often, John had to remind Sherlock _not_ to comment on the mediocre intelligence of other children – well, what he thought was mediocre, which was a very broad category when judged by Sherlock Holmes – especially as compared to his niece. Nor to point out to the parents of other children that their offspring were not that fascinating and only doing every other child on the face of the planet could do: run about madly and not listen to anyone.

_Of course_ this never applied to Josephine.

It made John fight down a grin each time – Sherlock sounded precisely like a haughty father himself, only able to see Josephine's obvious greatness.

Although, John had to admit, she was better behaved and generally brighter than the other children on the playground, at least that day, and he felt he was somewhat less biased than Sherlock, for whom no child was interesting but Josephine.

Sherlock was pushing her in one of those baby swings that was like a small basket, not just a bench seat. John always expected Sherlock to get bored with this as well, but somehow, it never happened. He stood beside his husband, hands in his jean pockets, watching idly as Josephine swung back and forth, grinning and laughing. Sherlock was concentrating on her, probably calculating all sorts of things like wind speed and air resistance and kinetic and gravitational forces and how high she was swinging and her reactions. And how long she'd been on the swing, because there were almost always other children waiting, and Sherlock always pushed it a _bit_ too long, confident that Josephine, of course, deserved more than anyone else.

It was the perfect time. Sherlock would _not_ break his full concentration away from his niece while she was on the swings, but he could give John enough of his attention that they could carry on a conversation.

"Out with it!" Sherlock suddenly said and John remembered that Sherlock could keep an eye on him as well as Josephine. "Whatever it is you're mulling about your brain, just ask me."

John nodded. Time to get it over with.

"Would you talk to Mycroft?" he asked.

Sherlock blinked, then narrowed his eyes somewhat at John, before glancing back at Josephine. John had been right – he didn't fully take his attention from his niece, keeping his stance positioned so he could keep pushing her in the swing, but returning his glare to John.

"No," he answered.

"Well, then, would you listen to him?" John asked.

This was the crux of the problem, John thought. Mycroft talked at Sherlock instead of to him, and Sherlock never really bothered to listen.

"Also no."

John sighed.

"Well, you may have to," he said. "He's coming over this evening."

"What?" Sherlock hissed.

"I invited him to."

"Why would you do that, John?" Sherlock snapped, but his attention was still torn. As angry as he was going to be later, when they were not at the park, at least John could sort of ease himself into it.

"Because I'm tired of how things are going," John sighed.

"You're tired –" Sherlock started. "This is another one of your well-meaning but ultimately cocked up schemes to get me to get along with Mycroft, isn't it? Why do you insist on playing at us being a family? You know perfectly well what he's like!"

"I do," John agreed. "And I'm not playing at anything, Sherlock. You _are_ family. You can't dodge that forever."

"I was doing a perfectly good job of dodging it, as you put it, until you got it in that ridiculously small brain of yours to invite him for – what? A tea and a chat?"

John ignored the comment about his mental abilities – he knew Sherlock didn't really mean it. Well, he meant it, but he didn't generally point it out to be a git, even if that's what he was doing now. And he was doing it now to retaliate against something unexpected being thrown at him, something he did not like. As far as insulting defence mechanisms went, John had endured much worse in the army.

"There could be tea, I suppose," John conceded. "But there _will_ be a chat."

"And if I refuse?" Sherlock said, giving him another glare of narrowed grey eyes.

"Then Mycroft can chat and you can listen," John sighed.

"I am capable of removing myself from the flat," Sherlock pointed out. "You and Mycroft can sip tea and chat all you want, then."

John didn't bother pointing out that he'd done this only a handful of days before. The less said about that, the better.

"You could," John agreed.

"But what?" Sherlock snapped. "You'll refuse to do the shopping? You'll make pointed comments on your blog? You'll resume sleeping upstairs?"

"No," John said simply. It wasn't as though he hadn't thought of these things – that and a score of other small threats he could make to try and get Sherlock to do as he wanted. But none of them would work.

If he didn't do the shopping, they'd just go hungry, or at least he himself would – Sherlock would probably not notice. He could make remarks on his blog all he wanted, Sherlock could easily get into his laptop and delete the post or make snide remarks back in the comments section, which John really did not want. As for sleeping upstairs, he only did that when Sherlock was utterly distracted with work or too keyed up to sleep and let John be.

But, ultimately, even if he could have done any of these things he'd thought of, he refrained, because doing them, forcing Sherlock into talking to his brother, would be a bit too much like acting the way Mycroft did. John didn't need to foster that kind of resentment – he had enough of it as it was between the brothers.

"No?" Sherlock demanded. "Just no?"

"Just no," John agreed. "You're thirty-seven. If you decide to remove yourself from the flat, I can't stop you."

Sherlock managed to glare at him, narrowing his eyes, and keep his attention on Josephine at the same time. Thankfully, she was distracted from their argument by the sheer toddler joy of being in a swing.

"So what then?"

"Nothing, Sherlock," John replied. "I can't force you to talk to him."

"Too bloody right," Sherlock growled.

"I can ask, though. Jo's time is up, I think."

Sherlock gave him a sharp look, but slowed the swing, expertly scooping the girl from it and settling her onto his shoulders. Josephine gave a crowing laugh, fisting her small hands into his hair for purchase, which made Sherlock wince slightly. She grinned from her perch above John, clearly enjoying the ability to see so much farther than her normal view of about two and a half feet off the ground. She beamed down at John and he smiled back up at her, raising one hand, which she caught for a moment. They couldn't walk like that, but he liked the brief contact, plus he could see it was annoying Sherlock for no good reason.

John was still trying to keep him good and mad, not let him slip into cool anger.

"Ready for some lunch, Jo?" John asked.

"Okay," she replied, nodding. Sherlock scowled at him, probably just for good measure, John thought. As though he'd forgotten in less than a minute that Sherlock was angry.

Then Josephine leaned forward and planted a kiss on Sherlock's head, right near his hairline. She was getting better at it, but still resorted to open mouthed baby kisses most of the time, which looked like this one was.

_Oh yes, try and stay angry now_, John thought, fighting off the smile from his lips, but he was certain Sherlock had noticed it.

Equally certain, too, that Josephine had unwittingly drained away some of Sherlock's frustration. It made him chuckle to think that no one Sherlock had ever faced, not even James Moriarty, had wielded as much power over Sherlock as an eleven-month-old baby.

Not even Mycroft, come to think of it.

Some days, John wondered if even he himself was secondary to Josephine. But then Sherlock would get that glint in his eyes and push John into their bedroom, or onto the couch, or against the wall (or into an alley, if they were out and Sherlock decided shagging John was not going to wait), so John didn't worry about it too much.

He tossed around the idea of having Josephine there for the conversation with Mycroft – it might make Sherlock more inclined not to vanish, but John was also unwilling to have his niece around his brother-in-law.

Plus, it would distract Sherlock and he would not listen to Mycroft for different reasons.

They took Josephine for lunch at a nearby café, where she happily ate some scones with cream, licking the cream off first before munching on the scones themselves. Sherlock sipped a tea in silence, giving John the occasional glare, which John responded to with a cocked eyebrow of his own. Sherlock huffed at him silently and redirected his attention to Josephine. For a moment, John worried the iciness he was trying to avoid had pushed him out, but Sherlock shot him another glare, which actually made John feel better.

After lunch, they returned Josephine to her father, since Tricia was at the hospital all day that day, but Henry had been out only for the morning. John was glad about this, actually – Tricia would have immediately picked up that something was going on, especially since she knew about John's meeting with Mycroft. She was adept at reading both of them, especially when they were together, and John didn't want to have to get into it.

They walked home in silence, John's passive – more or less – and Sherlock's sulky. John was glad about that, too. It meant Sherlock wanted John to know he was angry and wanted John to do something about it. John didn't, only because he was uncertain as to what to do. Leaving it be, letting Sherlock stew, seemed like the best option. It would keep him hot and bothered – not in the way John preferred, obviously – which would keep him from getting much angrier.

At home, Sherlock vanished into the kitchen and began pulling out equipment, clattering about. John let him go, sitting down with his laptop and reading the latest comments on his blog.

"You're not bloody posting about this, are you?" Sherlock snapped a few minutes later, not emerging from the kitchen.

"No," John assured him. "Just reading the BBC." He had just switched sites and was catching up on the news.

There was no reply and John didn't expect one. He wondered what would happen if he did post something on his blog, but that would be pushing it. Besides, what would he say? Sherlock is angry because his dangerous brother is coming to chat with him this evening? If you don't hear from us by tomorrow, please alert the police?

Yes, that would go over well.

He got up after awhile, when he noticed that the noises from the kitchen had suspiciously subsided and went to the archway, peering in. Sherlock shot another glare at him – John was beginning to think that's all his husband could do at the moment – then returned his attention to what he was working on. John thought it best not to ask where he'd got that human hand and how well it had been hidden that John hadn't noticed it.

"I'm going to have a shower," John said.

"Do you think you can do so _without_ inferring inappropriately in my life?" Sherlock enquired coolly.

John chewed on his lower lip, pretending to give this serious consideration.

"Um, yes, I think I can manage," he replied, a smile twitching at his lips. Sherlock looked up again, eyes narrowed, his expression dark. John left it at that, ducking away into the bathroom.

He striped down and stepped into the warm spray. Even with the hot summer temperatures outside, he still enjoyed a warm shower. John stood there for a few minutes, just enjoying the sensation, then reached for his shampoo, lathering a small amount onto his scalp, closing his eyes against getting any of the lather on his face.

A moment later, the shower curtain was pulled back and when John managed to open his eyes and turn around, Sherlock was in the shower behind him, hogging all of the spray, towering over John, his grey eyes bright, arms crossed over his bare chest.

It wasn't fair, John considered. It was difficult to hold his own against Sherlock at the best of times, least of all when he was gloriously naked.

_Well, I deserved this_, John thought.

"Will you at least let me rinse my hair?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock replied and John could tell he wasn't kidding. "Why did you do this?"

John pushed a hand through his hair so it was off his forehead, some of the lathered shampoo coming off on his hand. He was a bit chilly now, being denied the hot water from the showerhead, which he _knew_ Sherlock was enjoying, in no small part because John wasn't getting any at all.

"Because Mycroft needs to set things right with you," John said simply.

At this, Sherlock looked surprised and almost uncrossed his arms, catching himself at the last moment, giving John another glare for good measure.

"What?" John asked. "Did you imagine I'm not on your side about this, Sherlock? This isn't about you being a stubborn ass, which, by the way, you are, but Mycroft is worse than you." Sherlock snorted, but John ignored it. "He needs to talk _to_ you. He's your brother. That isn't going to stop being true, even if you want to dodge it, and him, for the rest of your life. And you know he's not going to let that happen. But at very least, he owes you – something, I'm not sure. Probably not an apology, if only because he won't give it. But some respect, and maybe to actually listen to you about some of the nonsense that he's pulled lately."

Sherlock stared at John a long moment, long enough for John to start feeling uncomfortable under the steady gaze of the unreadable grey eyes. John shifted, knowing that was precisely what Sherlock wanted of him, but unable to stop himself. How was it that after almost three years of marriage, Sherlock could still discomfit him that way?

And _why_ was it that John never wanted that to change?

"And you expect Mycroft to do this?" Sherlock asked.

John laughed shortly.

"I don't think I could ever expect any reaction from Mycroft, Sherlock," he replied. "You're hard enough to read most days yourself despite how well I know you, and I am most emphatically not shagging your brother."

"I should hope not," Sherlock replied coolly, raising an eyebrow at John. "I rather think he has his own arrangements about that at the moment."

"You're probably right," John said. He didn't mention Angela's involvement in this, but given what they'd seen in Edinburgh, John would have guessed the same thing as Sherlock had, on that limited evidence alone. "Besides, you're far better looking."

At this, the corners of Sherlock's lips twitched upward but he got it under control quickly, keeping his expression severe. John crossed his own arms over his chest, not in irritation, but to try and keep himself warm.

"I just think you should try," John said. "It'd be nice, maybe, not to have this hanging over our heads all of the time?"

"And how would letting Mycroft into our flat make that any better?" Sherlock demanded.

"I don't know," John admitted. "And nor do you, not until you try it."

"He is my brother, John. I have lifetime of knowing him to base this on."

John raised an eyebrow at that – Sherlock had unwittingly echoed Mycroft's words about knowing his brother. _Two peas in a pod, they really are. Except peas don't get homicidal like these two could_, he thought.

"Like I said, it's up to you," John replied. He didn't feel particularly good about having Mycroft in the flat, even though it had been his idea. He hoped his brother-in-law wouldn't take this as an invitation to start breaking in again whenever he pleased. John didn't have the patience for that, and their tea supply couldn't keep up.

Sherlock held John's gaze for a long moment, inscrutable, tapping one finger against his bicep, then gave a brief nod.

"Fine," he said.

"We can always kick him out if he gets too insufferable," John replied, feeling relieved.

"I will rely on your army training to assist me in that," Sherlock said coolly.

"Absolutely," John agreed. "Now, can I rinse my hair?"

Sherlock grabbed him and switched them places so quickly that John didn't have time to react, sputtering under the sudden spray. He tried to raise his hands but Sherlock's were already in his hair, pushing his head back, rinsing the shampoo out quite roughly. John tried to breathe around the spray, sputtering again, and Sherlock released him so he could duck his head, wipe his eyes and take a deep breath.

"You've pinned me quite nicely in a corner," Sherlock observed in a low voice that sent a tremor down John's spine.

"Yes," John admitted. He felt himself being pushed up against the wall, the sudden shock at the cold tiles after the hot spray jarring his muscles, making him open his eyes fast. Sherlock was pressed against him, looking down at him, grey eyes still bright and piercing. He gave John a quick, aggressive grin, grasping his hair, tilting John's head further back, leaning down.

"My turn," he murmured, before catching John's lips and swallowing his startled gasp.


	5. Chapter 5

John knew he probably deserved this, but knowing that didn't help at all.

His body hurt in a way that had nothing good associated with it, but nothing bad enough that he could really complain legitimately. If it were his left shoulder, he'd have some solid ground on which to stand, but Sherlock was very good at not doing _anything_ to aggravate John's old injury.

Unfortunately – fortunately, most of the time, but not this time – he was also very good at some other things. He was, after all, an extraordinarily perceptive man, particularly when he wanted to be. He had told John he stored only important information in his brain, which, John supposed, included information about John himself. All the little details that John was half wishing Sherlock didn't remember, at least right now.

He had pushed John up against the wall, then teased and played him quite expertly, relying on almost four years of knowledge and all of those pesky details he kept stored in his mind, the ones John was _normally_ thrilled that Sherlock knew. He'd coaxed John slowly and agonizingly until the point at which John was almost breaking, whimpering and begging, long past any kind of shame at that, for Sherlock to give him what he wanted.

Then Sherlock had simply stepped out of the shower, dried off, dressed, and gone back to work.

Leaving John gasping, head reeling, barely able to stand and not at all able to yell after his husband through the shock.

Then, of course, Sherlock had turned on the hot water tap in the kitchen, pulling the hot water abruptly from the bathroom. John had yelled then, feeling more than a little assaulted, and had managed to shut off the tap, leaning against the wall and breathing hard.

It had been some time before he could sort himself out and then find the strength to get out on shaky legs, dry himself off and dress. Even his normally steady surgeon's hands were trembling as he did up his jeans, wondering why in the world he'd married Sherlock Holmes, and musing about Sherlock's sociopathic tendencies, because anyone who could have walked away from _that_ had to be criminally insane and unfeeling. He'd had to sit down for awhile, just to regain his head, wishing he could tell himself he felt dizzy because he was dehydrated or hungry, not because his husband had worked him up and then cut him off.

It seemed almost like too much punishment.

At the same time, he thought he should have seen it coming.

He had told Mycroft he didn't know what to expect, though, hadn't he? John had been more right than he'd imagined.

Sherlock had never denied him sex before. Oh, he'd said no if he wasn't in the mood (twice in the whole time they'd been together, John remembered clearly), or been uninterested if a case was taking up his attention (a _lot_ more common), but he'd never done _this_.

John hoped he'd never do it again.

And he hoped he could find a way to make Mycroft have to pay for it, because he was still sore, and this was really Mycroft's fault, when he got down to it.

He made himself leave the bathroom and go into the kitchen, half trying to hide the unsteadiness of his legs, half knowing it wouldn't matter. Sherlock was sitting at the table, back to work on the mysterious hand, not a hair out of place, looking perfectly calm and composed, as though nothing had happened. John had a few choice curse words for that, courtesy of his old drill sergeant, but he kept them to himself.

"Good shower?" Sherlock enquired, his voice light, as though he were really just asking. As though he had no idea.

"Ran out of hot water part way through," John said, fishing a glass from the cabinet and filling it from the tap, draining it fast, then refilling it.

"Hmm," Sherlock said absently. "Shame. You should talk to Mrs. Hudson about that."

"I'm sure she'd love to know all about it," John said, unable to stop himself. He saw Sherlock's lips twitch only the barest amount before his expression became detached, concentration refocused on the hand again. He sipped his water, trying not to feel off balanced, but it was hard, with Sherlock sitting _right there_ and having obviously just put on that expensive and subtle cologne he favoured when he was in the mood for wearing cologne at all, which was not often.

And, of course, he knew John loved it when he did.

His entire body was screaming and Sherlock was just sitting there, cool as anything, focused on his work.

He should have known, _he should have known_, that Sherlock would put together why John had dropped the idea of Mycroft visiting when he had, at the park with Josephine, and he _certainly_ should have known that Sherlock would work out an equally devious means of retaliating.

No, John thought. Not _equally_ devious. Substantially more devious. Because Sherlock could. And would. Without batting an eyelash.

John realized suddenly that he hadn't made Sherlock angry, no. He'd annoyed Sherlock by getting around his defences, identifying the one time that was best for John's purposes to spring something unpleasant and familial on him. He was irritated that John had picked up on this perceived weakness and used it – not quite against him, but to get what he wanted with the minimum amount of fuss from his husband.

And annoying Sherlock was worse than making him angry.

John's nerves jangled.

Maybe he'd been too impulsive?

But no, it still needed to be sorted out, even if Sherlock had very unpleasantly reminded him of exactly what he was capable of doing, off-handedly and without real concern, although, to be fair, he was probably sitting there snickering internally at John's obvious discomfort.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a right bastard?" John enquired, trying to keep his voice even.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock murmured smoothly, without looking up from his work. John, although a surgeon and not squeamish, opted not to look at the consulting detective pried one of the nails up from one of the hand's fingers. "Many times."

"Well, let me just reinforce it, then," John said, finishing the last of his water and refilling the glass again, as if somehow, the rehydration would actually make him feel better.

"Hmm," Sherlock said, glancing up then, the smallest of smiles playing on his lips. "As always, your opinion is noted and appreciated, John. Do pass me that bottle of rubbing alcohol, will you?"

John did so without comment, then opened the fridge to see about fixing something for himself to eat, even though he was not particularly hungry yet. It was still only the middle of the afternoon, and he'd had a small lunch, a couple of samosas, at the café. Normally that wouldn't be enough to carry him through, but his appetite was oddly absent at the moment.

He almost held down a startled reflex when he saw the other hand in the fridge, next to the milk.

At least, he noted almost instinctively, it wasn't making a rude gesture at him.

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock said. "It's already gone through rigour mortis. It would be quite difficult to pose at this stage."

Well, nice to know that it wasn't at all because Sherlock hadn't thought of doing it, John considered darkly.

"Right," John said, shutting the fridge, his non-existent appetite becoming even more so, if that were possible. "You know, I think I'll go for a walk. I'm starting to feel like I may need some air."

"Plenty of air in here," Sherlock commented vaguely.

_Yes, _John refrained from saying, _And it all smells like you, you saw to _that_._

"Fresh air," he settled for replying.

"Well, be sure to be back by seven," Sherlock said. "As I understand it, my brother will be coming by for a visit. I'm certain you wouldn't want to miss that."

John glanced back quickly on his way out of the kitchen, but Sherlock was still absorbed in his work, which was getting more surgical and somewhat nauseating by the minute. There was no expression but concentration in his expression, nothing but simple fact in his voice, and John watched his eyes for a moment, but saw no hint of anything else there, not a flash, not a dangerous glimmer.

He knew it was lacking because Sherlock did not want it to show.

"I'll be back before then," he assured his husband.

Sherlock nodded vaguely and John rescued his shoes from near the doorway, lacing them on, then snagged his keys, wallet and phone.

"John?" Sherlock called then and John made the mistake of looking up, back toward the kitchen.

Sherlock gave him a smile that sent an almost painful shudder of desire down his spine, a smile John had seen many times, hovering over him in the dimness of their bedroom, or as Sherlock closed the distance between them on the couch, or in a cab on the way home, making John's heart speed up and his brain try to will the car to go faster, try to force the distance between wherever they were and home to close _now_.

The smile that said, _I know what you want_.

"Enjoy your walk," Sherlock said, his voice light, almost companionable.

John drew a deep breath and forced himself out the door.

* * *

John had taken an hour and a half to walk around, trying to cool down or warm back up or feel settled or regain his energy – he had no idea. He felt as though he were walking half comatose, barely aware of those around him, moving aside for other pedestrians instinctively. It didn't help that he could hear Sherlock's voice in his head, reproving him about being inobservant.

When he'd returned to the flat, Sherlock had been still at work, but had at least opened some of the windows, if only against the smell of a partially dissected hand. John had avoided the kitchen at all costs then, telling himself it was the impromptu surgery keeping him away, and had holed himself up in the bedroom with the small table fan on, to help combat the smell, and a book, which he read three chapters before realizing he'd not actually read a single word.

At five, Sherlock had cleaned up his mess and actually fixed them something light to eat. John knew his husband was calculating how much time they had before Mycroft came over, and how much time it took after a meal to begin to digest properly and lose the tired feeling that came from eating. Two hours would do it, and since Sherlock hadn't eaten anything substantial since breakfast, John was glad to see him to do.

He joined Sherlock in the living room, but pushed his meal around his plate, not at all hungry himself. Sherlock, despite having worked on the dead hand all afternoon, still smelled faintly of his delicious cologne and was wearing the purple silk shirt John loved – he'd changed into that before cooking. This was a new one, of course, since the old one had been destroyed at the beginning of July in the explosion up the street, damaged by the smoke and the rain that they'd worked in all night, trying to clear the wounded.

John still had to repress a shudder at the memory of that night. Too much like Afghanistan. And when he remembered Sherlock's presence there, it was too calm, too evaluating. But it had been evaluating him, not the disaster, if only because the flames had been burning too fiercely to allow for any analysis of the scene itself.

Odd how, yes, he missed Afghanistan sometimes, the adrenaline, the rush, the feeling that he was _helping_, doing something, but not the aftermath. He'd barely noticed that night pass them by, so focused on just making sure people didn't die under his hands, not if he could help it, but he did not at all miss the drained feeling it had left him with afterwards, and the numb sensation brought on by the memory.

No surprise he remembered it now, he thought, as he shoved his food about the plate vaguely with his fork. Elizabeth Heath, one of Mycroft's agents, had been the target, and had died, along with a total of eight other people altogether. Considering how bad it could have been, John knew that the rest of the victims had got away fairly lucky, if one could consider the consequences lucky. These ranged, he knew, from badly burnt patients who would not be the same again to those who had lost only things, their homes and possessions.

It all seemed to trace back to Mycroft.

Sometimes, when he allowed himself to think of it, Mycroft put him in mind of James Moriarty, with his fingers in everything, with webs John could barely image spun all over the world, centering on London, because that's where he lived and breathed, but extending to reach far beyond the ring roads that tried to circle the city, the small villages and towns that tried to hold their own against the encroaching urban sprawl, the relentless march of this modern Rome, the mountains and highlands of Wales and Scotland that had been caught in the city's grasp for untold generations.

But Mycroft didn't do what he did out of boredom and a disregard for other people. He did what he did for precisely the opposite reasons. Because he loved London, loved England, with every breath he took, every cell in his body. John believed this, because he saw the same thing in Sherlock. Even though Sherlock was far more like Moriarty than Mycroft ever would be, because Mycroft didn't get _bored_ in the same way, didn't skip over the complication of human lives as though they were irrelevant.

Sherlock wasn't Moriarty because he'd learned, somewhat, a bit, even if it was often a battle to get him to remember, that not all lives were inconsequential, that behind the puzzle, there were other things that mattered, even if they had to be ignored for the purposes of solving whatever mystery lay in front of him at any given moment.

For example, John could never have pictured Moriarty pushing a small child on a swing contentedly, unless something was going to blow up in the vicinity.

Mind you, he couldn't picture Mycroft playing in the park with a baby, either.

The thought almost made him smile, his lips twitching. So, was Sherlock the sentimental one here? _Best not wonder that out loud_,he told himself.

He realized Sherlock was standing in front of him, one hand outstretched, his mostly empty plate held in his other hand.

"If you're not going to eat it, give it to me," Sherlock said, cocking an eyebrow at John. With a sigh, the doctor passed his untouched plate of food over and Sherlock vanished into the kitchen, not at all doing any of the cleaning, as evidenced by the fact that he reappeared almost immediately. John pushed himself to his feet and took care of the washing up – if Mycroft was coming, he was not about to present him with a messy flat.

When he returned to the living room, Sherlock was reading, sitting his chair, looking calm and composed. John fetched a book of his own and curled up, wondering if he complained about feeling like crap, if Sherlock would take pity on him.

Probably not.

Sherlock could be amazingly short on pity for John, when it suited him.

Precisely at seven, the buzzer rang and Sherlock looked up from his book, arching his eyebrow at John again. The doctor heaved a pointed sigh, which was duly ignored, and pushed himself to his feet, going down the stairs and opening the front door to admit his brother-in-law. Mycroft was waiting patiently for him, leaning on his ever-present umbrella, and gave John a cool look as a hello.

"Shall I assume he's here?"

"Upstairs," John sighed.

"And will you be joining us?"

"He hasn't asked me not to," John replied and stepped back so Mycroft could slip inside. John noted the black car stopped in front of their building and picked up on a couple of other people hanging about, who may or may not have been watching the flat. They could just be loiterers, for all he knew, or they could even be Sam's Interpol eyes. He shut the door against all of those possibilities and bolted it again.

Mycroft made his way upstairs, John following him. Sherlock looked up from his book when they came inside, appearing mildly startled to see his brother. He marked his place meticulously and set the book aside.

"Mycroft," he said, not getting up, folding his hands so he fingers were laced together, resting them on his stomach. "Tea?"

"Please," Mycroft said.

"You know where it is," Sherlock replied, nodding to the kitchen. "Do help yourself."

John almost laughed, swallowing it at the last moment. He went into the kitchen behind Mycroft, but the older man did indeed know where everything was, since they hadn't moved much of anything and he'd formerly had a penchant for arriving unannounced for a cuppa and a chat. John waited until the tea was ready and took two cups back into the living room, passing one off to Sherlock.

Mycroft came in with his own cup and Sherlock waved him vaguely into John's chair. He sat, and John perched himself on the arm of Sherlock's chair, angling himself slightly so he was physically as close to his husband as the somewhat awkward position could make him.

He saw Mycroft note this and they exchanged a look – he was not removing himself the way Angela had, not avoiding declaring a side. He _had_ a side in this. It was firmly with Sherlock, and he was going to ensure both of them knew that, very clearly, without question.

Sherlock crossed his legs so that one ankle was resting on the opposite knee and gazed at his brother with an even and unreadable expression.

"John tells me you've come to talk," he commented, as if remarking on the weather. "So, by all means, talk."


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft stirred his tea gently, evaluating both of them.

"I must say, John, you look a little green," he commented lightly. "Are you feeling quite well?"

"Fine," John said gruffly, sipping his own tea to cover the unease he was feeling sitting in close proximity to Sherlock – he could still smell the damn cologne – and to having Mycroft in the same room as both of them.

"As you say," Mycroft agreed. "You are, after all, a doctor."

"He's put off because I wouldn't shag him earlier," Sherlock said and Mycroft raised an eyebrow, his grey eyes glinting. John swallowed on a groan but knew he couldn't fight down the sudden redness in his cheeks.

Leave it to Sherlock to throw him to the wolves.

But at least his husband had something else to be sarcastic about now, something that wasn't entirely Mycroft. It might help with the conversation.

Knowing that didn't help the situation much, to John's mind. Not for him, anyhow.

"He can be quite touchy about that sort of thing," Sherlock commented.

As though Sherlock never, ever whined and moaned and complained about not getting his own way, John thought. About everything. As though, when John was tired or sleeping or not in the mood or even down with a cold, Sherlock was inclined to leave him alone when _he_ wanted something. And as though he wouldn't sulk like a pouty little child when he didn't get his way, until John caved in, as he almost always did, because it was easier, and Sherlock was frankly an adorable and irresistible pouter. Which John was fairly certain Sherlock knew.

Oh yes, right. John was the touchy one. Absolutely.

Mycroft cast John a look that said he knew this, probably down to the fine details.

"Indeed," he agreed with his brother, though. He took another sip of his tea, falling silent.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock sighed then and John waited, feeling the moment draw out more than it actually was, feeling longer and deeper and less certain than it should have been. Maybe it was only him, though.

"I believe I owe you a debt of thanks," Mycroft finally set, setting his teacup down on the small table beside him, gazing over at his brother evenly.

"Several," Sherlock said. "I could draw you up a list."

John wanted to tell Sherlock to behave and wanted to warn Mycroft not to let Sherlock push him, because this was heading in precisely the same direction it always did. Mycroft feigned weary patience, Sherlock lost his patience and baited him.

_And round and round they go_, John thought.

But then Mycroft drew a silent breath, although John had noted it, so Sherlock certainly had as well.

"I'm sure you could," his brother agreed. "However, I shall do my best without one. In this case, I meant for finding and stopping Alessandra De Luca."

"For her death, you mean," Sherlock replied.

"I can't argue that wasn't my preference," Mycroft replied evenly. "Although, all things considered, the rest of the British government would have preferred that she be duly tried and convicted."

"That would have created some complications for you," Sherlock pointed out. "Given how she was released last time."

"Precisely why I preferred the outcome your young Interpol friend provided," Mycroft said. "I have no desire to drag any of this out into public, particularly the details that concern David."

"Nor do your superiors, I presume," Sherlock said.

"Not especially, no," Mycroft agreed. "Nor Angela."

At this, Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, but Mycroft made no further comment.

"It occurs to me as well that I have never properly thanked you for the work you did helping us determine who had David."

"No, you didn't," Sherlock said. "What will it be, Mycroft? A knighthood? Will you bestow some bit of land out on the moors on me? Perhaps rename one of the streets in London? Or shall I just find a hefty deposit in our bank accounts one day soon? I do not need these things, nor do I want them."

Mycroft picked up his tea and sipped it again before replacing it.

"Thank you," he said simply.

John saw Sherlock freeze, even if it was only momentarily, barely enough time to be registered, but since he had done so, Mycroft had as well, he had no doubt.

And he wondered if Sherlock had ever heard his brother say those words to him so simply, without sounding put upon, without wanting anything else, without holding something over his head.

Then he wondered what it must have been like to make the exchange, Alessandra De Luca for David, to reclaim a son that had been forced on him by the very men who had abducted him, to be the first familiar person David had seen after five days of being held hostage.

To know that the simple choice he'd made eleven years previous was no longer simple, because it was _not_ just a simple choice anymore, not just a decision made because he knew the woman involved. Now it was a fully formed, living, breathing human being. One who was small and scared and vulnerable and needed everything in his life that felt safe.

Terrifying, John realized. It would be terrifying. And all the more so because Mycroft had been so far removed for so long.

"I did what you asked me to do," Sherlock said, but his voice bordered on gruff. There was a pause of a fraction of a second, then he continued, his tone normal again. "No more so than any other case."

"Nevertheless," Mycroft replied. "Thank you."

Sherlock held his brother's steady gaze for a moment, then gave one abrupt nod. John sipped his tea to cover his complete lack of ideas about what else he should do.

Silence settled over the flat and John waited, watching each brother stretch it out, turning it into a mute battle, making him tense up, a dull ache creeping into his left shoulder. He tried to will them to break it. One of them would have to give. Mycroft always tried to make it be Sherlock.

And vice versa.

"Can we not put this behind us?" Mycroft said finally, unable to repress a sigh and John saw Sherlock's eyes flash in displeasure at that. It had the overtones John was used to, that overbearing older brother quality, the one John had tried to impress upon Mycroft that he needed to avoid.

Was he trying? Impossible for John to say.

"And precisely what is 'this'?" Sherlock snapped and there was that familiar tone in his voice again, as well. John felt his heart sink a little – old patterns. But he knew about that, didn't he? He and Harry had gone round in the same rutted path for years and years, always trying to pull themselves, or each other, out. Never quite succeeding.

And then, one day, in the blink of an eye, with the sound of crumpling metal and shattering glass and cursing, she'd been gone.

And he knew, without a single doubt, that Sherlock would miss Mycroft more than he could ever imagine if his brother was ever so abruptly and permanently removed from his life, as much as Sherlock wouldn't believe it now, as much as John even had a hard time believing it, despite the knowledge.

Because he felt it for Harry sometimes even now, half a year later.

Mycroft made a vague gesture, as if to encompass the three of them, the flat, the city, the country, the universe. It was difficult to judge.

"Any of it, all of it, Sherlock. Whatever you can acquiesce to."

"What, for Mummy's sake?" Sherlock all but sneered.

"As much as I would enjoy having her let up somewhat, no. Rather, for yours and mine."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes somewhat.

"What do you mean, as much as you'd enjoy having her let up?"

Mycroft sighed, and John wondered if he was resisting drumming his fingers against the arm of the seat. Then he blinked, realizing what Mycroft meant.

"She's been quite persistent about our falling out, Sherlock, and how she believes I should be handling it."

Sherlock was silent for a moment longer than necessary.

"She's not said anything to me," he replied.

"No," Mycroft said, arching an eyebrow. "But then, she isn't putting the responsibility on your shoulders, either."

Sherlock's eyes flashed, part surprise, John knew, part frustration.

"It isn't her job to assign responsibility to you for your actions, Mycroft. And how much does she know?"

Mycroft held up an appeasing hand, which John considered a mistake, especially when Sherlock's shoulders changed their set, tensing somewhat, and his jaw tightened.

"Less than you think, I suspect, but rather more than I'd like her to. She is a woman of remarkable resource, after all."

"And did you bother telling her about David?" Sherlock enquired coolly.

At this, Mycroft hesitated enough for John to catch it.

"No," he said then. "Not now, Sherlock. And I'd appreciate it if you did not, either. Now is not a good time for David. Perhaps when he's older. When things have settled down for him somewhat and he's ready to deal with strangers again. In any event, it will be his choice, not mine. I'd prefer if you left it in his hands."

"Do you imagine I had any intention of doing otherwise?" Sherlock said. His voice hadn't thawed; it anything, it was colder, and John didn't like the sound of that. "You made it quite plain what you thought about your involvement in his life, and the fact that you kept this to yourself even after he'd been abducted speaks volumes about your attitude toward the entire situation. Presumably if you didn't want the man you charged with finding him to know he was your son, you do not want anyone else to do so."

John remembered Mycroft sitting with David, though, holding him as the boy fell asleep, and thought things were otherwise now. He'd have to tell Sherlock, he realized, even though he'd wanted to avoid doing so.

_Brilliant_, he thought. _I hope I can take it._

"I am not at all sure what your intentions were, Sherlock," Mycroft said. John hoped this admission of ignorance would appease Sherlock somewhat, but the detective huffed, sitting back against the chair cushions hard, glaring over the rim of his teacup as he took a sip.

"I told you quite plainly what they were when you found me at Bart's that day," he replied abruptly. "I told you I had no interest in being involved. That remains true. About all of it."

Mycroft looked as though he were about to scold Sherlock and John sent a heated warning glare, wondering if he had to intervene and, if so, how. Perhaps put them each in separate corners? Rap their knuckles with a ruler? He thought of his army training days – a six-mile run in the rain followed by a hundred push-ups might suffice. Although Sherlock would clear that much more easily than Mycroft.

He could just settle for punching them both.

Right now, it had a certain appeal.

The only problem was deciding whom to punch first.

_For God's sake_, John thought, _Try not dancing about so much!_

Mycroft took another sip of his tea, then met John's eyes, as though he'd heard the thought spilling from his mind.

"As much as you may not believe this, Sherlock, as your brother, I do miss you when you are not around."

Sherlock stared at him for a long and distinctly uncomfortable moment.

"You miss me," he said woodenly. "When I am not around."

"Yes," Mycroft said, and it was as close as John would ever get to hearing him mutter something, then his voice resumed its usual clarity. "Although I'd prefer you not make me repeat it unnecessarily."

Sherlock rose suddenly, unfolding his long body from the chair, startling John into leaning back to avoid having his mug knocked and tea spilled all over him. Since his drink was still hot enough to burn, if not scald, he wanted to avoid that.

"My problem is this, Mycroft: those who are around you have lately had an unfortunate tendency of ending up in serious jeopardy or dead."

John blinked, and stared, then shuddered, his mind suddenly reeling when another voice, a memory rather, echoing, oddly accented, angry and dangerous said to him:

"_I will burn the heart out of you."_


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock was standing in front of him, John realized, blocking him from seeing Mycroft – no, blocking Mycroft from seeing him. The doctor blinked again, feeling as though the words must have been spoken out loud, not just in his head, Moriarty's voice reverberating across the years, taking on a different meaning now, but he wondered if Sherlock had even thought of it, or Mycroft.

But neither man looked at him, so the memory, the words, must have stayed locked in his mind.

He remembered the pictures of David on Sherlock's phone, the agonizingly long wait for the kidnappers to call.

He remembered Tricia being held at gunpoint, taut and white, hands up, the day after she'd found out she was pregnant with Josephine. He remembered wondering where Henry was, not knowing her partner was at work at the time, his mind playing all sorts of images of the lawyer's dead body just out of sight.

He remembered Sherlock burning the first card Sam had ever sent them, ostensibly from Venice, the ashes falling over the sink as Sherlock tried to erase any hint of his friend's survival, so as not to alert his brother.

He remembered Sherlock himself, coming in from Bart's, or so John had thought, pale and rigid, his hand wrapped in a bandage. John had put together a disjointed story about Mycroft kidnapping Sherlock for a chat, and a broken beaker earlier in the day on which Sherlock had cut himself. John knew those were linked somehow, but wasn't certain how.

He remembered asking himself, over and over, how one dealt with loving someone whom one was afraid of, and realized they'd come back to the same question, and Mycroft probably did not even realize it had ever been asked.

But then, then he remembered Tricia wresting the gun from the hit woman's hand, taking advantage of the barest of moments of distraction, disarming her and ultimately shooting her. He remembered her standing in their doorway, reminding Sherlock that she was more than capable of taking care of herself, and that he wasn't shaking her loose that easily.

He remembered Sam, agreeing without hesitation to confront Mycroft, and then in the docks only last month, putting himself in Alessandra De Luca's line of fire, but taking the shots himself before she could, not flinching, not hesitating. Not bothering to leave before the police arrived, and facing Greg Lestrade without reservation.

He remembered himself, at The Pool, seizing James Moriarty, yelling at Sherlock to run.

And Sherlock hadn't.

_Why _was he responsible for all of them? And since when?

_I was right_, John realized suddenly. _Two peas in a pod. They're so bloody smart they think no one else can take care of themselves, except Mycroft just extends this to Sherlock, because he's older. Great bloody damn idiots!_

And he suddenly remembered Angela MacTaggart's look when David had been allowed to speak to Mycroft on the phone, and her expression as she watched Mycroft sit with David in the bedroom at the Dorchester only a few days before, holding their son as he fell asleep.

The sound of Mycroft's voice, above the steady drone of the jet engines, that Angela hadn't given up any of her contacts or influence after she'd retired.

"Who ordered the hit on Marco De Luca?" John said, all of this flashing through his mind in the space of a suspended breath, of a slowed heart beat, causing a burning sensation in its wake, searing through all of his nerves, leaving him with a new certainty that Sherlock was wrong about this, at least in part.

He stepped around Sherlock, so he was standing beside him, acutely aware of how much taller his husband was, but also that Mycroft was still seated. And that Sherlock made an involuntary motion, as if to push John behind him again, but John put a hand lightly on his arm, not quite restraining.

"Was it you?" John demanded, when Mycroft did not answer. "Or was it Angela?"

Sherlock's gaze was redirected to Mycroft so quickly it nearly made John wince, and Mycroft was eyeing them both, expression detached and cool, but not underneath, John could see.

He was silent for another long moment and John tightened his grip the slightest bit on Sherlock's arm when he felt Sherlock was going to speak and kept his own silence, waiting.

Mycroft gave a single nod.

"I would prefer, however, if you continued operating under the illusion that it was me."

Now Sherlock did open his mouth, but John beat him to it.

"And because we will, you'll stop the surveillance, Mycroft. All of it. The agents, the cameras, the phone traces, whatever else you have – I don't care. All of it."

Mycroft appraised John slowly but John stood firm, all too aware of the tension he could feel in Sherlock's muscles under his hand.

"I don't suppose I can press upon you to accept that this is for your own protection?" he asked, his voice sounding professional, but John heard a hint of irritation in it. Not his normal, almost indulgent irritation, but true annoyance, because this was actually causing him problems.

He was actually worried that one of them might say something about Angela MacTaggart's involvement.

"And Elizabeth Heath?" Sherlock asked suddenly, redirecting the thread of the conversation. "And the kidnappers?"

Mycroft's lips twitched into a frown.

"Also Angela," he said with a sharp nod. "I did say she used to work with me, yes? Heath used to work for Angela. She came to me after Angela retired. After we'd recovered David, Angela contacted Heath and gave her what information both of us had obtained. And she did a very good job of keeping me almost completely out of the picture until after it was all taken care of. Unfortunately, by that time, Alessandra had already slipped off of our radar and made it back here." He gave a small shrug, as though to dismiss her actions. "Without her grandfather's promise to keep her out of England, she had no reason to stay away, and plenty of reason to come back."

"But she thought it was you," Sherlock pointed out. "Which is why she went after me."

"And she was wrong," Mycroft said bluntly. "So were you. So was Interpol. Although, to be fair, Agent Waters – or whatever his name is now – did a fair job getting you the information you needed to catch her. You know some quite well connected people, I must admit, Sherlock."

"Yes, impressive isn't it?" Sherlock sneered.

"The levels at which you're connected? Working alone –"

"Without you, you mean," Sherlock interrupted. "Without your help, without your influence." He shook John's hand off and crossed his arms. "And impressive that I have friends, isn't it? Bit of a change from oh, I don't know, our entire lives? What is it that bothers you so much about this, Mycroft? That I can do the work on my own merits, or that I can manage to get on with some of these people? Or is simply that I don't need you all of the time?"

"No, of course not," Mycroft sighed.

"_To which question_?" Sherlock snapped.

"To all of them, of course."

"It's what they do to prisoners, you know," Sherlock said suddenly and John blinked, seeing his own confusion mirrored in his brother-in-law's face.

"What is?" Mycroft asked. John wished he could figure out how to get Sherlock sitting down again. Him towering over both of them felt a little too much like a stand off, which was probably precisely what he wanted, but not, John thought, all that helpful to getting anything resolved.

But Mycroft was bearing up under it, and doing a fairly decent job of not being a total pompous ass. At least in the last couple of minutes.

"Cameras. Guards. Monitored phone conversations. Intercepting the mail. Watching Internet activity. Setting schedules. Assigning tasks. If we were in prison, we may have more privacy, since at least then we'd know where the cameras were at all times. We wouldn't have to check for them on a regular basis in our own flat. And, presumably, we'd have a release date, some distant but set future time in which this constant _watching_ would stop."

With this, he threw himself back into his chair, letting out an abrupt sigh, and Mycroft sat very still for a moment.

"It's not at all –"

"No, you think it's not the same, since you do not live with it," Sherlock said flatly, but John could see the banked fire still in his eyes. He took his seat on the arm of Sherlock's chair again, and was somewhat surprised when Sherlock laced his fingers through John's rubbing the back of John's hand with his thumb. "Let it go, Mycroft. I will take your cases. I will chase down the criminals you can't apprehend, let alone comprehend. I will conveniently ignore what John just made you disclose. But. Let. This. Go."

John held his breath, biting his lower lip without realizing it. Sherlock's eyes were locked with Mycroft's, and he was certain he could feel the electricity sparking between them, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, making goosebumps prickle on his arms.

He'd seen this kind of visual standoff before, in Afghanistan, but between men with guns, neither willing to shoot, neither willing to stand down. The tense space of heartbeats as both sides waited for a retreat or an attack.

Sometimes, it ended badly, if someone was startled, or trigger-happy.

He could see Mycroft weighing his options. All it would take was one phone call on a hidden cell phone to an Interpol agent who could run the lead up the ladder, all the way to the headquarters in France, and so much would be dragged out, so much that did not need to be. John wasn't a big believer in vigilante justice, particularly given what had happened up the block from them. And not all of the parties involved were out the picture, not even the most dangerous ones, because Mycroft and Angela were still alive and well.

But in the middle of this was a ten-year-old boy.

John could see that knowledge in both Sherlock's face and Mycroft's eyes.

Sometimes, the standoffs in Afghanistan had not ended badly, but with a retreat, both parties or just one, the moment before the tension should have snapped and caused fatalities.

"Is that really what you want?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes," Sherlock hissed, but there was an element of a sigh in it, born from years of long frustration. _Sibling rivalry_, John thought. _About ten steps up._ "It is, Mycroft. From you, it's all I have ever wanted."

The admission seemed to startle Mycroft and John wondered how a man quite so brilliant could be quite so stupid. He glanced at Sherlock – he could wonder the same thing there.

_None so blind as those who would not see_, he thought. He remembered that from somewhere. _And why do we not want to see the people we love for who they are? _

Too frightening, perhaps. Or just too hard, being so close. Or both.

"Very well," Mycroft said evenly, nodding.

John felt as though someone had pulled a plug in him and fought against slumping in relief. The tension drained out of his muscles, out of the air, although Sherlock was still sitting utterly still, eyes fixed on his brother.

"Then no one will hear anything about Angela from us," Sherlock said. Mycroft nodded, a minute, fleeting expression of relief on his face.

Without a word from either of them, through some unspoken consensus, Mycroft stood, gathering his umbrella. Sherlock stayed seated, his back straight, but followed his brother's movements with his eyes, turning his head slightly as Mycroft moved toward the door.

"Good night, Sherlock, John," he said. "I shall be seeing you both soon, I'm sure. However, when I see you, I assure you, you will both also see me."

At this, Sherlock's lips twitched and his grey eyes glinted for a moment, picking up the evening sunlight that found its way through the windows. John made himself get up and open the door for Mycroft, who slipped out easily, gracefully, as though nothing of consequence had just happened.

"Good night, Mycroft," John said as his brother-in-law stepped into the landing. "Thank you for coming."

Mycroft said nothing to this and John closed the door, bolting it firmly behind him, then pressed his head against the wood, his heart hammering so he could feel it in his neck. He closed his eyes, waiting until he heard the front door opening and shutting again, knowing he'd have to go down shortly and throw those locks as well.

Then he exhaled deeply, turned and sank to the floor, knocking his head once back against the door.

"You," he said, opening his eyes and fixing Sherlock with what he knew would be an ineffective glare. "Are an idiot."

Sherlock hadn't so much as moved from his chair, but cocked an eyebrow at John, his expression taking on a hint of amusement.

"Coincidentally, I was about to say the same about you. When were you planning on telling me that you'd talked to Mycroft and Angela?"

John didn't bothering asking precisely what gave that away – he'd suspected something in the conversation might tip Sherlock off, but was rather hoping it wouldn't happen. No such luck.

"I was hoping not to, actually," he admitted.

At this, Sherlock snorted.

"Really, John," he said and John started to laugh. "Are you going to tell me what happened in this conversation?"

"Mmm, no, I don't think so. Not just yet," John replied and Sherlock looked somewhat taken aback, then miffed. "You owe me."

"_I_ owe _you_?" Sherlock enquired coolly, but John knew it was feigned. He reached up, knocking a loose fist once against the door.

"My idea to have him here for a talk, wasn't it?" he asked. "And now we don't have to worry about the surveillance. And maybe he'll let up treating you like his baby brother and start admitting you're a grown man who only occasionally does mad, stupid, life threatening things like chase after armed drugs dealers on your own, without back up. _And_ you were a right bastard to me earlier."

"No more than you deserve," Sherlock observed, tapping his lips absently with an index finger, regarding John levelly, with a trace of amusement.

John heaved himself to his feet, shaking his head.

"Sherlock, for putting up with you, I definitely deserve more than that. Besides, since when do you not finish something you've started?"

Sherlock's eyes lit up and he pushed himself to his feet.

"Quite right, John, thank you," he said. "I still have quite a bit more work to do on that hand before I'm satisfied with the results. Shouldn't let time waste, after all, should I? You were right: I do owe you. May have completely forgotten had you not reminded me."

John groaned and Sherlock laughed, but paused to kiss him on the way by, even though, strictly speaking, where John was standing was not entirely on the way from the living room into the kitchen.


End file.
